By Emma Buckley-Hough, quite dizzy with the spendings
I IMAGINED that honouring your marital commitments multiple times in a single evening was a lurid fantasy confined to correspondence to the parish newsletter. How wrong I was.
As a tradwife, I live by certain ethical standards. I obey my husband in everything, I don’t have a bank account, and I’ve forgone my needless right to vote. Leaving me more time to concentrate on my wedding vows.
The vows exchanged between my husband/owner and myself dispensed with modern trends of personalisation. There was no humour in our sacred commitments, nor any risible concessions to my needs as a woman. If 1662 didn’t need it, why would we?
No, we stuck to the traditional setlist of sickness, health, richer or poorer. Our only deviation to modern tendencies was the pre-nup. In the event of divorce he gets all the livestock and I get tarred and feathered.
But voluntarily choosing to live like a peasant doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I know most couples only fulfil their marriage vows during their honeymoon, before tapering off and replacing them with glamorous office affairs.
We were no exception. On our wedding night I kept my vow to love and honour with enthusiasm enough to crack an oaken headboard. But as the years went and I bore six children, our wanton matrimonial lusts cooled deplorably.
I blamed myself. Because my vagina is my wifely function, I’d been throwing myself at him wearing the raciest garters my monthly allowance could afford. Far too sexually harrying. I was essentially being a nagging shrew, but with my fanny.
I practiced forbearance. But my husband’s superior mind, incomprehensible to my meagre facilities, meant after a day or two of abstinence he was again full of lust, even unto bending me over my churn. I daresay it helped the butter.
Delightful it is for our marriage to be back in bloom and for me to be taken firmly in hand. He’s hinting at booking me for a course of electroshock therapy to cure my nymphomania, and we couldn’t be happier.
